


Shall I Tell You a Secret?

by bees_stories



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Foreplay, M/M, Making Up, Marking, Massage, Masturbation, Mind Games, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Seduction, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks that Sherlock can turn his libido off like a tap. It turns out that's not quite true as Sherlock explains what's been distracting him during their latest case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall I Tell You a Secret?

***

The last thing John expected to hear coming out of Sherlock's mouth, especially in the midst of what had proved to be a complicated and difficult investigation, was 'Go to my room, John, I want to have sex', so he looked up from the book he'd been reading with an expression coloured with equal parts disbelief and surprise and replied, "Excuse me?"

Sherlock paused his progress from the sofa, where he'd spent most of the afternoon reclining and contemplating the ceiling, to the bedroom. He fixed John with a pointed look. "You heard me." 

John nodded, conceding that he had. "Yeah, I did. I just didn't quite believe it. That was blunt even for you, Sherlock."

"Was it?" Sherlock's entire face crumpled into lines of irritated confusion. "I thought it was unambiguous and straight to the point. Other than a few niggling details that can only be dealt with in the morning, the case is solved. We haven't a booking, and none of the decent restaurants will have a cancellation for at least two hours, which means we might as well take care of your neglected libido."

"Gee, thanks for that," John replied, and immediately regretted it. He and his right hand had been getting way too chummy of late to turn down any offer of sex, no matter how crudely rendered. 

Sherlock's expression became contemplative and then he brightened. "Oh, I _see!_ My enforced celibacy has left you feeling both emotionally _and_ physically neglected. You want to be seduced rather than commanded into bed." 

Immediately, a protest rose to John's lips. He'd made more than his share of blunt proposals, and most of the time he didn't half mind it when Sherlock did the same. Some of their most memorable encounters had occurred when they were frustrated as hell with one another and used sex to work out their issues. But then he realised that Sherlock had a point. 

Their latest string of cases had put him firmly in the role of second fiddle. He took care of domestic affairs, consoled the clients, intermittently fetched tea and sandwiches, and the occasional body part from the lab at Barts, and ferreted information on demand off the Internet for his increasingly fractious partner, and at the conclusion of each investigation, Sherlock got the praise as he faded even further into the background. 

"A man likes to feel he's appreciated," John admitted. He caught Sherlock's gaze and held it. For several long seconds they stared at one another as he communicated his feelings of discontent at once again being used as a whipping boy.

Sherlock broke eye contact first, dropping his gaze to the floor at his feet in an act of contrition. He took a breath through his nose and then met John's gaze again. "Then let's delete the last few moments, shall we?" 

Uncertain as to what he had in mind, John nodded. Sherlock gestured he should carry on as if the conversation hadn't occurred. Still feeling off balance, John returned to the book he'd abandoned. He skimmed the paragraph he'd been reading when he was interrupted to recapture the thread of the narrative and wondered what he'd just let himself in for. He turned the page. Sherlock walked out of the room. Time passed. The clock on the mantel chimed. In the book, a new drama unfolded paralleling events in the latest string of serial murders. Knowing Sherlock wished him to be distracted, John fell into the story. He trembled with surprise when Sherlock ran a fingertip lightly over the skin under his right ear, pulling him abruptly out of his reading. 

"John, shall I tell you a secret?" Sherlock didn't whisper, but he pitched his words in a seductive timbre and coloured them with dark intimations. 

John swallowed hard, feeling caught out, but he nodded. 

"I've been thinking about you," Sherlock continued in the same low tone. "During the past weeks, no matter how busy we've been, I've been watching you and I've been thinking of all the sorts of things I'd like to do to you." His lips brushed against the shell of John's ear. "It's become rather lengthy, this list of mine. Perhaps I should tell you about it. Hmm? Shall I, John?"

John felt the skin over his cheeks heat. Sherlock was just as inventive at play as he was when he applied his genius to criminology. He swallowed and nodded again, leaning his head so that Sherlock might take the hint and repeat the feather-light caress. He lost his grip on the book and it slid out of his lap to rest against his thigh.

Sherlock chuckled. It was a rough and dangerous sound. "Already you're eager for my touch. Aren't you, John. You've missed me. Missed this." He ran one fingertip over John's cheekbone, down his jawline, and up again to trace his lips. 

Instinctively, John let the tip of his tongue dart out of his mouth, longing to suck the finger that teased him. His heartbeat quickened, sending the blood surging through his body. He shifted against his chair, trying to ease the tension that was already building in his groin. 

"I've neglected you, " Sherlock admitted. "I've left you to cope on your own. You pleasure yourself in the shower, because you think I won't notice. You don't want me to know because you want to spare my feelings. But I know, John. The scent of coconut shower gel rather than plain bar soap perfuming the steam gives you away. Why coconut, John? Is it to evoke the memory of our experimentation with coconut oil?"

The question hung on the air along with an image of Sherlock tied to his bed as John poured warm oil down his torso and over his thighs in preparation for an erotic massage. Unable to loosen his tongue from a suddenly dry mouth, John nodded instead. 

Sherlock chuckled and then he began to speak again. "I lay on my bed with my eyes closed and I can see you, as plainly as day, leaning against the tiles as the water cascades down over you." 

He made a breathy sound as if he was enjoying recounting his imaginings. "Your face is drawn in concentration as you touch yourself. Slow strokes at first that gradually quicken the closer you come to ejaculating. You like touching yourself." A leer entered his voice. "But you like it better when I do it for you. Don't you."

John nodded again, still unable to get his tongue moving as Sherlock started not quite whispering in his ear again. 

"Tell me, John, do you fantasize it's my hand around your shaft? Hmm? Or is it my mouth? When you're masturbating yourself, John, do you fantasize about me down on my knees, sucking you until your legs tremble and you have to grab the shower wall for support? Because that's on my list, John. I want to be on my knees in the shower with the water pounding over us. I want you with your legs spread and your back pushed up against the tiles looking at me as I suck you down to the root. Would you like that, John? Shall I go down on my knees before you? Or shall I tell you some of the other things I've wanted to do to you?"

Wordlessly, John nodded as he ripped himself away from the mental image of Sherlock kneeling in the bath, his hair flattened by the shower spray. His lips would already be pink and puffy, because their kisses inevitably became quickly aggressive, but the slight imperfection would only make him that much more sexy as he looked up through his eyelashes.

"I've ached to touch you, John," Sherlock confessed. "If I've been surly of late it's because my need has transmuted into a genuine compulsion. When I accidentally brush your arm, I want to take your hand in mine and kiss your fingertips before I take them slowly between my lips."

Once again, John's imagination flew into overdrive. Visions of Sherlock sucking on his fingers, drawing them in and out of his mouth as if he was fucking them, made his breath hitch as it caught in his throat. 

"I don't dare temper my harsh words by nudging your shoulder because I can't afford the risk that I'll slip up and lose control and ravish you before witnesses."

The memory of being in an alleyway, one of the few times they'd thrown caution to the wind, pushed itself to the front and centre of John's brain. Once again he felt raw excitement as he was shoved roughly against a brick wall, knowing that Sherlock might hurt him a little, but the pleasure would outweigh the pain.

"I keep thinking about how it would feel to press my body against yours. There have been days when five minutes in Lestrade's interview room, grinding against you fully clothed, would have been nirvana, but I steeled my resolve to stay chaste and sent you away. You must have resented me, John, and for that I am sorry, but I could feel my resistance crumbling, and could think of no other defence." 

John smiled ruefully as he remembered Sherlock barking for coffee, not from the pot stewing on the incident room's file case but from the canteen, even though it was equally dire, and suddenly found himself feeling much more forgiving. It seemed that the ascetic habits; ignoring his body's need for food and sleep and even sex weren't quite as easy to maintain as Sherlock made it seem. It was only long practice and strictly imposed discipline that made it possible for Sherlock to slip back into his monastic ways.

"And once we've arrived home after those long, tortuous hours dissecting crime scenes, do you have _any_ idea how difficult it has been for me not to crawl into bed beside you? I had to shutter my mind against memories of holding you. The feel of your skin pressed against mine. I longed for all the myriad scents of you filling my nostrils as I buried my face against your neck. I had to shut out the memory of the pleasure I feel when I bite down right here – " A low, inarticulate sound of desire slipped from John's throat as Sherlock slid his fingertip underneath his shirt collar, caressing a favourite spot. "– and you squirm against me, begging for me to do it again." 

It was late. They' been out for a night at the pub. It wasn't Sherlock's favourite way to spend an evening, but he'd tolerated it. Over the course of their stay he'd become increasingly jealous as John became the centre of attention at the dart's board. A woman had bought him a beer and that had put paid to the fun. They went home and fell into bed; Sherlock poring his jealousy and his insecurities into his lovemaking, becoming intensely passionate.

"You thought my initial proposition abrupt, and for that I apologise," Sherlock continued. "But it wasn't nearly as crude as what I'd been contemplating. Would it have surprised you, John, to learn what I really wanted to say was, 'Come to bed, John. I want you to fuck me into the mattress?" 

John's jaw fell open as his awkwardly constrained erection throbbed in his pants. He shifted against the seat cushion, trying desperately to unobtrusively move it into a more comfortable position. "Ye... ye – ," he stammered, as a sense memory overloaded the speech centre in his brain. _Sherlock bent over his desk, legs spread, grunting in time with his thrusts._ It short circuited, and he lost the ability to make even a monosyllabic reply.

He wasn't sure how much more of Sherlock's confession he could withstand. Each admission played into his own imaginings and made them viscerally real. He knew he was horny, but he didn't realise how desperate he'd been. Even though Sherlock had barely touched him, it was as if his brain and body were conspiring to lovingly render each passion-filled scenario in 3D Feel-O-Vision. A low hum filled his ears as the blood in his veins surged through his body. His skin felt like he'd passed through an electrical storm; the fine hairs on his body were raised as if there was live current still charging the air. He was breathless and trembling. His penis throbbed as tension pooled at the base of his spine. He was getting dangerously close to the point of no return. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures. If Sherlock started talking about being splayed naked across his mattress eagerly anticipation the burn of penetration as he watched a condom being rolled slowly into place, John knew he'd be a goner. Awkwardly he reached out, trapping Sherlock's head, and leaned up to kiss him into silence. 

The forgotten book fell onto the floor as John pulled Sherlock bodily around to the front of the chair. The cushion shifted under his knees and he wobbled, clinging to Sherlock's shoulders for support as the kiss intensified from a closed mouth press to a desperate clash of lips and tongues. John groaned, venting his frustration as Sherlock pushed a hand underneath his jumper and shirt and caressed the skin at the base of his spine, making his body tremble from the tips of his fingers all the way down to his toes. The sound Sherlock made in reply was more animal than human as he moaned, open mouthed, against John's throat.

John pushed Sherlock off of him and stumbled away from the chair. He had a list of his own and intended to tick off as many lines as he could before sunrise. "Sherlock. Bed. Now," he said, ignoring the irony of the command.

End


End file.
